


Rehabilitation

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story told through drabbles and flashfiction. </p><p>The Autobots have won the war, and Optimus' compassion guides their treatment of their former enemies. When Vortex is captured, Optimus assigns First Aid and Smokescreen the task of rehabilitating him. </p><p>G1 AU set after the end of Season 2. </p><p>Contains themes of self harm and violence. Angsty.</p><p>A while back, wyntirrose prompted me to write Smokescreen rehabilitating Vortex after the Autobots have won the war and the other Combaticons are all dead. I loved this idea, threw in First Aid, and set myself the challenge of writing some drabbles to explore it a bit further. </p><p>This started out as a challenge to write a story in chapters of exactly 500 words. That... didn't last long, but eh! This is still ongoing and I'll update when I can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wyntirrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/gifts).



**Prompt 1**

**02 June 2012: Optimist sees donut. Pessimist just sees hole.**

"You can't be serious." Ratchet glared up at his Prime, hands on his hips and the deepest frown on his face that Optimus had seen since they won the war. "I understand clemency in certain circumstances. But rehabilitation? _Him?_ "

"I'm serious," Optimus confirmed. "We cannot discriminate, the same terms will be offered to all."

"He's insane," Ratchet said. " _Criminally_ insane."

"He was coerced into fighting by Starscream," Optimus said. "He deserves a chance. You can help him."

Ratchet sighed. "You realise how long this is going to take?"

Optimus nodded. 

Ratchet activated his comms. "Smokescreen, First Aid, report to medbay."

**Prompt 2**

**Schwellenangst - (German, n.) Fear embarking on something new; fear of crossing a threshold.**

"I'm not sure I want to do this," Smokescreen whispered. He stood beside First Aid, waiting for the guard to grant them access to Metroplex's high security cells. He'd spent the two days since their meeting with Ratchet and Optimus researching their new patient, and he really hadn't liked what he'd read.

"We have a duty of care to him just like anyone else," First Aid replied, but Smokescreen was willing to bet he had the same churning in his tanks, the same restless agitation that made him want to turn and flee. 

He fidgeted. "Yeah."

**Prompt 3**

**05 January 2011 - Scenario - in solitary confinement**

The first session, they observed. First Aid didn't like it, but Ratchet had insisted.

The door of the cell was two-way glass; he and Smokescreen could see in, but their patient couldn't see out. Patient? More like prisoner. First Aid didn't like that either. How were they meant to rehabilitate someone if they kept him isolated in a single room cell bare of all home comforts?

Smokescreen seemed equally unimpressed. "We'll need to move him."

"I'll speak with Metroplex," First Aid said. 

"And Ratchet?" Smokescreen sounded hopeful. 

"Yes, and Ratchet." 

In the cell, their patient stared blankly at the wall.

**Prompt 4**

**#4 - sturmfrei - (German, adj.) lit. “stormfree”; the freedom of not being watched by a parent of superior; being alone at a place and having the ability to do whatever you want.**

In his third vorn online, Vortex had been left in charge of his unit's makeshift off-world base. He'd watched them leave; the front-liners, the bombers, the snipers, everyone his commander needed to tame the rebel colony.

Not the interrogator. Vortex was, as his commander put it, cleanup.

Vortex had loved it. No stupid seeker watching his every move, no suspicious colleagues waiting to report him for the smallest infraction. Just him alone with a world of possibility for a whole seven joors.

It was just him again, in the here and now. He didn't like it anywhere near as much.

**Prompt 5**

**12 May 2012, inside a cityformer**

A wiry thin arm emerged from a wall of Vortex's cell, and Metroplex's slow voice came over the speakers.

"Please remain calm."

First Aid watched via a remote camera. "He's agitated, we need to stop."

"No," Ratchet said firmly. "Get it over with. You wanted him moved."

"Not like this." It was horrible to watch. "He'll hurt himself." First Aid winced as Metroplex took three attempts to make the connection. Abruptly, Vortex collapsed. First Aid stood. 

"Where do you think you're going?" Ratchet demanded. "We don't know for sure he's out. Metroplex, please mobilise Six-Gun and Scamper for patient transfer."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another five drabbles, although not from prompts this time.

Weariness seeped through his every line and cable. It seized his joints and servos, and stole the focus from his optics. 

It wasn’t the sedative; that unwelcome alien code had reached its expiration and spiralled down to nothing joors ago. It wasn’t a self-serving desire to co-operate, or the fear of Metroplex, or any one of a dozen other explanations his captors would undoubtedly propose. 

He didn’t know what it was. 

He stared at the wall. So smooth, this living metal, abuzz with nanites. He wanted to touch, to scratch, but his limbs were too heavy, the effort too much.

* * *

The walls had arms. They had other sensors as well, hidden microphones, concealed cameras. It wasn’t only Metroplex who was watching. 

Vortex thought of all the things he could do, the myriad ways he could unsettle his observers. 

He thought of other cells in other times, of nervous jailers and thoughtful guards, of easy marks whose conscience was painted bright on their faces, and whose sympathies made them simple prey. 

He thought of daring escapes and clever manipulation, but he didn’t raise his head. 

He saw the sun in his peripheral vision. A window. A weak spot. And ignored it. 

* * *

Smokescreen took the seat next to First Aid. "Ratchet still won't let you in?" 

"He thinks it's too dangerous." First Aid pushed a data sheet across the table. 

"What's this?"

"Plans," First Aid replied. "From Grapple, so we can start treatment. Metroplex will replace the side wall of Vortex's room with an energy shield. We'll be able to talk to him, but Metroplex will provide physical intervention if necessary." 

"You don't like it." 

"I don't think it will help. It's one more layer of alienation. He doesn't need that."

Smokescreen pushed the data sheet back again. "Yeah, but we might."

* * *

His captors didn't visit. 

The small patch of sunlight made its way around the room, and no-one came. Vortex stayed where Metroplex had initially put him, askew on the bunk, one arm trailing. There was no point in getting up.

He'd been convinced he was headed for the smelter, but he didn't know any more. Back in the box, maybe. Another eternity of numb nothingness. They would think it kind.

His rotors clattered, an involuntary shiver. No point in suppressing it, just like there was no point in getting up. 

He wondered dully if he had a right to deactivation. 

* * *

While he recharged, things changed. 

The room widened. Not by much, but the door was certainly further away when he woke than when Metroplex's slender auxiliary arms had unfolded to connect him to the forced recharge jack. 

The main change, he didn't notice for a long while. He was facing the wrong way, inert on the bunk, just like he'd been the day before. 

A sound gave him the impetus to turn his head; a polite electronic cough, muffled but close. Too close. 

The wall behind him had gone; a screen stood in its place. And beyond it, his captors.


	3. Chapter 3

Vortex let his head roll limply back to its former position. He recognised the medic and the tactician; he'd shot at them often enough. He knew their frame types, their weaknesses. He knew the identities of those they loved, and a dozen different ways to make them crumble inside. 

But the surge of vindictive intent faded as soon as it had appeared. 

What was the point? He could exercise what little power he had, could goad them into shooting him. He could give himself one last bitter triumph and relieve himself of the hell of another eternity of sensory deprivation. 

Or he could watch that small patch of sunlight creep slowly across the wall. 

"...tex? I'm not sure he can hear me." 

A breeze traveled down from the vents in the ceiling, light on his rotor blades. Vortex let his vision blur. He'd never fly again. He had no weapons, no tools, no way of breaking down the wall and reaching the sky. He had no transformation cog, either. It had been removed with his weapons and his root mode thrusters, when the Autobots first took him prisoner. 

"...swer a few questions."

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad this time. He knew what to expect, and how to survive. 

He almost laughed.

"...n increase in anxiety indicators. Smokescreen?"

"Vortex, we'd like to ta..."

It would be worse. He suppressed a shudder, his rotors giving the faintest shiver. It would be worse because he knew what was coming. Because it came not from Decepticon vengefulness and hard-headed practicality, but from the twisted threads of Autobot compassion. 

"...on't think we need that, Metroplex. But thankyou."

Maybe they would kill him after all. It would be just like the Autobots to order a psychiatric evaluation before pronouncing someone fit for execution. 

"...ot here to hurt you. Do you understand? I'm sorry that we had to sedate you." 

Maybe he could kill them. He still had his rotors. It would be easy enough to break one off and make a crude weapon of the jagged edge. He'd done it before more than once, out of amusement or necessity. 

His limbs were so heavy; it was an effort to raise his hand, to drag his right arm back within reach. But the pressure felt good on his tail rotors. Reassuring. He slumped again, left hand slack over the small rotor blades, enjoying for a moment this confirmation that he was still alive. 

"...stay. I can write my reports here."

He tightened his grip, winding his fingers around one slim blade. 

"...e if you need me."

He released his grip, and sent a gust of warm air from his vents over the rows of tiny sensors. Better wait for the medic to leave, for Metroplex to drop his guard or be distracted. 

"...ou miss flying?"

The sunlight dimmed; clouds drew in. 

"...at, uh... What did Prowl tell you, when they brought you here?"

He flared his main rotors. Atmospheric pressure was dropping; perhaps it would rain.


	4. Chapter 4

First Aid sat in a shaft of sunlight in the observation room. He worked on his case notes, enjoying the warmth. On the other side of the glassy-clear energy barrier, Vortex lay motionless. 

A message scrolled across the top of his data pad; Metroplex. _'I am concerned. He is unresponsive.'_

 _'He needs time,'_ First Aid replied, also in text. _'If you would rather, I can apply to have him taken elsewhere.'_

 _'No.'_ The answer was instant. Then a moment's pause before, _'I experienced remorse for his distress.'_

 _'That troubles you?'_ First Aid asked.

 _'Yes,'_ Metroplex admitted. _'Because it is him.'_

 _'It's a normal response,'_ First Aid wrote. _'It shows that your logic processors and your emotion core are working together fine.'_

 _'It doesn't feel... fine.'_ The moment the glyph appeared, the door opened and Scamper walked in. 

First Aid resisted ordering him immediately out. Scamper was a part of Metroplex; the same rules didn't apply to the semi-autonomous symbiotes that applied to everyone else. 

Scamper took a chair and sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. 

_'Can you repair him?_ ' Metroplex asked as Scamper glanced at Vortex. 

First Aid patted Scamper on the arm. _'I truly hope so.'_

* * *

The medic stayed for an obscene amount of time. Vortex ignored his grey companion. It was one of the cityformer's drones; with Metroplex watching, its presence meant nothing. 

His small slice of sky turned grey. Rain fell, and the world dimmed to evening. First Aid left, finally, after another abortive attempt at communication. 

Vortex saw no point in rallying his focus enough to comprehend the words and formulate an answer. It was all noise. 

He shuffled his rotors and drew his knees up. Curling around his right arm. He grabbed a slim tail rotor blade at its base, and pulled. 

* * *

Smokescreen caught First Aid in the corridor outside the Level 5 recharge suites. "How did it go?"

"Slowly," First Aid said. "I'm caught up with my paperwork, at least."

"He didn't say anything to you?"

First Aid glanced around, checking that the only person in earshot was Metroplex. "Not yet, no," he said. 

"Hey Smokes!" Huffer's head appeared at the other end of the corridor. "You in or you quitting?"

"In!" Smokescreen called without thinking. "Gimme an astrosec!"

First Aid looked amused. "Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow before our next session. Does 0930 suit you?"

"I'll be there." 

* * *

The bunk wasn't a part of Metroplex, Vortex was sure of it. It was just furniture, and it didn't matter that Vortex had pulled a little too hard and driven a shard of metal through the gap between his wrist and his arm, straight into the main energon conduit. The steady dribble of fluid wouldn't alert the cityformer, provided it pooled on the bunk and out of sight. 

The rotor blade was easy to shape. Not so easy to sharpen, but he would manage it. He ignored the leak, his laser core was plenty charged. 

The pool expanded; Vortex persevered.


	5. Chapter 5

Every so often, Vortex heard the echo of an announcement over the cityformer's speakers. The speakers in his cell didn't so much as crackle. 

Things were happening. Distracting things, Vortex hoped. The lake of energon was growing, threatening to spill. Vortex pressed his knees and elbows into the padding, giving the liquid somewhere to run. 

Energy core at 67% and falling. Slowly. It was all right. Fumes filled his vents, and made his intake hose contract. He floated on the scent, and his hands stalled. What was he doing again?

It was hard to remember. The energon smelt so strong. 

And still it flowed, a thin and fascinating trickle. He'd had worse. He remembered bar brawls and battles, the heat of his laser core against his palm, the spurt of energon from his throat, his chest. 

This was nothing. 

And it felt oddly good. 

Oddly, because it didn't come with his usual craving for sensory overload. The stream was gentle, the loss subtle, small. Gradual. The fluid tickled his palm and seeped into the joints of his fingers, the seams of his elbows and knees. 

It stung his scrapes, and took him back to his first joors out of the Detention Centre. Starscream's yammering, his own confusion as his databanks struggled to reconnect with his personality component. He hadn't known Onslaught or Starscream or any of them. But he'd known the sting of salt spray in his newly-forged seams, along his rotor blades. 

It had been enough to convince him he wasn't hallucinating. 

Laser core at 43%.

His joints creaked. How long had he knelt here, curled around his elbow, watching the pale shimmer of the energon reflect on his own arms and chest?

Pink on grey, like he was already dead. He didn't want to die. It was the better of two options if the other option was the extraction of his personality component. But he didn't want to. No. 

His legs were stiff, his cables held taut too long. He eased himself down, careful not to splash. 

He couldn't remember why this need for care. Laser core at 32%, still falling. Falling like the drop of energon from the tip of his broken tail rotor. Like the tiny rivulets reaching the edge of the bunk and tumbling off on their journey to the floor. 

The first drop rang clearly through the room. The second heralded an alarm. The third saw the winding out of the cityformer's auxiliary arms. 

They were sharp and slim and multi-jointed, and weaved patterns in the gloom Vortex had trouble following. They made for the back of his neck, and Vortex slashed at them with his new blunt blade.

They weren't getting him. Not this time. Shockwave's drones, insectile multi-limbed monstrosities, opening him up, severing his connections. He fought back, aware of noises, the alarm, a voice deep and steady. 

Steady like the stream of energon from his wrist. 24% and falling.

Falling, dizzy, connected. Metroplex spoke and the interface came alive. Vortex crashed.


End file.
